


A Statement Of Exact Meaning

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other content warnings per chapter, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21642808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: A series of tumblr writing prompts based on definitions of obscure and unusual words. Various characters and pairings, per the tags.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims, Gerard Keay/Agnes Montague, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Melanie King/Helen Richardson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83





	1. liberosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> liberosis - the desire to care less about things
> 
> Peter/Elias

“I had a dog, when I was a kid.”

Elias rolls over and props himself up on one elbow. He looks unsurprised, only faintly curious. He’s used to Peter throwing out odd tidbits of personal information, orphaned pieces of himself that imply intimacy on the surface, but are hollow beneath. Peter doesn’t really know why he bothers with this anymore, other than out of sheer reflex.

“It was a present for my eighth birthday,” he continues anyway. “A scrap of a thing, some sort of terrier mix. Only had it for a few weeks.”

“What happened to it?” Elias’ expression is inscrutable.

“My parents took it away.” Elias doesn’t ask what happened after that, and Peter doesn’t know the answer anyway.

“What did you call it?” he asks instead, something in his eyes hungry for the knowledge. Peter scratches his beard thoughtfully.

“I don’t remember,” he says.

It was the first, best lesson they taught him. _You cannot care about loss_ , his mother told him, afterwards. _You must learn to lose everything but yourself. You must give it all to our god, gladly._ She looked at his tear-stained eight year old face dispassionately, and offered no comfort.

Peter’s practiced losing his whole life since then. The goal has never been to negate loss, but to savor it: the sting of denial, the melancholy pangs of a relationship’s end. To dedicate it wholly to his god. To feed Forsaken without being himself devoured. Peter delights in losing the things he cares for.

He hasn’t thought about the dog in years. Doesn’t even know why it came to mind, except -

“I would have taken you for more of a cat person,” Elias says, stretching languidly against him.

Except he’s practiced losing this, over and over again, months and years and continents of separation. It never sticks, and somehow this is the one loss he can’t stop caring about.

“Too self-sufficient,” he replies, pulling Elias close against his chest. “I want something that misses me when I leave.”

Peter is leaving tomorrow for six months, and he is already dreading the absence he’ll feel. A hurt he’ll hold greedily behind his ribs, not feed to his god in eager worship. And his god will not be pleased.

“Mmm, maybe you should get a bird,” Elias suggests. “One of those ones that _pines_ when it’s left alone.”

“Why would I need that, when I have you to pine after me so sweetly?”

Elias laughs, cool and amused. Presses closer, fingers curling around his biceps, and kisses Peter. Tender and filthy, his way of admitting _I’ll miss you, just a little._

Peter can tolerate it, the gnawing hunger of Forsaken, eating away at him for weeks until he grows used to being alone again. Until the ache of Elias’ absence recedes. He worries though, that one day it will not stop. That this loss will undo him, and his god will swallow him whole.

Elias’, mouth open lazily under his, shifting into Peter’s lap to make his interest known.

“You’re not gone yet,” he purrs. “And we have the whole night.”

Peter worries, but not enough to give this up. Not yet.


	2. selcouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> selcouth - unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful
> 
> Jon/Elias

Jon comes to him after Ny-Alesund.

Elias knows that he’s coming. It isn’t a surprise when his cell door opens and he sees Jon framed there, righteous and wrathful. But it is an utterly singular experience, seeing his Archivist in person after all this time. Elias might call it religious, if that weren’t so trite.

He already knows how Jon has transformed. Emerging from the chrysalis of sleep wet-winged and uncertain, unfurling through the heat of adversity into something beautiful and deadly. But he hasn’t truly _seen_ it until now, the full splendor in the flesh.

It steals the breath from his lungs.

Before he can speak a word, Elias finds himself crowded against the wall, Jon’s hands curled in his collar. Jonathan Sims is not a physically imposing man, but the look in his eyes sends a thrill down Elias’ spine. They promise fear and pain, knowing stripped like muscle from bone.

“Nice to see you, Jon.” He keeps his voice level with an effort of will. Jon’s lip curls.

“You knew,” Jon says harshly. “You knew what would happen, and you didn’t give us a hint of warning. Basira almost _died.”_

Still the same Jon despite it all, so rare for an Archivist, so tender hearted. Beautifully wounded by the cruelties of the world, and determined to defend others from it.

“Basira made her own choices,” says Elias, “As have you. But you’re not here only to chastise me, I’m sure. What do you want, Jon?”

Jon’s fingers flex and twist in the fabric of Elias’ shirt. He is glorious to Elias’ eyes, glowing with a radiance he can’t believe other people do not see, the Archivist’s magnificent dread seeping from every joint of him like liquid gold. It is nearly blinding, but Elias cannot look away.

“The truth,” Jon tells him. “And that’s why you hid from me, isn’t it? Because you were afraid I’d get it from you.”

Jon’s brow is furrowed with fury and confusion, as if he himself isn’t entirely sure what he wants, what this truth is that he seeks. Elias’ chest aches at the familiarity and the strangeness of him. His Archivist, grown beyond all expectation. He raises his hands to cover Jon’s where they grasp his collar. Jon’s skin feels electric under his palms, unknown and enthralling.

Elias closes his eyes for a moment, and still sees Jon, bright as an afterimage against his eyelids.

“I didn’t want to influence you. Your…development. But you’ve done so well, Jon. You’ve become so much more than I could have imagined.”

Jon flushes involuntarily at the praise, but his expression is fierce and unsparing.

“I’ve become _something,”_ he says, leaning close. “Something I think is stronger than you. I’m going to ask you some questions, Elias. And you’re going to answer me.”

His breath is warm on Elias’ cheek. His voice is filled with the promise of compulsion, irresistible and terrible. It is a promise that Elias believes. He tightens his fingers around Jon’s wrists.

“If you can make me answer,” he says hoarsely, “Then you’re ready to know.”

Jon’s lips part by his ear, and Elias shivers at what’s to come.


	3. hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hiraeth - a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past
> 
> Jon/Martin

The lock is stiff with disuse, and Jon has to jiggle the key to get the door open. Inside, the flat is that very specific cold that indicates nobody’s been there for some time. The plant by the window is brown, and Jon feels a stab of guilt. Georgie gave him that when he moved into the new place, challenged him to keep it alive.

The fact that he’s still thinking of this as _the new place_ probably says a lot.

He hasn’t been here in weeks. Wouldn’t be here now, if he didn’t need a specific reference book that he’s sure is on his shelves somewhere. Jon’s not precisely afraid of the things that lurk outside the Institute these days, not the way the others feel trapped there. But it’s better to be safe. Better to stay where he can do the most good. What point is there coming back to an empty flat every night, when there’s so much to be done?

“Home” isn’t a concept that’s ever meant much to him. He was too young when his parents died to remember their house in St. Albans, and despite growing up there, he’s never had any particular affection for Bournemouth. Hasn’t been back there since his grandmother died. Even in his adult life, he’s never placed any attachment on the places he’s lived. One London flat is much the same as another.

The Archives are more familiar than anywhere else he’s lived, but they’re not home. The building itself holds no more attachment for him than any of the others he’s occupied. He has no great love for the rows of dusty shelves, the squeaky chairs and the lavatory that only flushes if you pull the chain in a very particular way. It’s just a place.

Home is where you miss when you’re not there anymore. And it’s taken Jon far too long to realize that home for him is Tim’s cheerful teasing, the inappropriate jokes Jon always told him off for. Sasha’s thoughtful solemnity that he only knows from tapes, the unfamiliarity that never stops hurting. _The Archers_ on the radio, unexpected yellow doors, those are starting to become part of home, but they can’t stop the quiet ache in his chest.

Home for Jon is cups of tea set kindly on his desk. Being dragged to the canteen over his protestations when it’s been too long since he ate. Lectures about the invertebrate ecosystem and gentle, firm reminders to take a break when he’s been working for twelve hours straight. A kind and stubborn heart he wishes he’d cherished sooner.

Jon tries to imagine Martin in this flat, gently poking fun as Jon trawls the cluttered, disorganized shelves for the lost book. Looking in Jon’s fridge and cupboards, rolling his eyes at their bareness. _Honestly Jon, you need to at least keep some food around the place._ He would water the dead plant, because Martin never gives up hope, even on hopeless cases. Suggest they order some takeaway, because Jon hasn’t eaten today (he knows he should, there’s just never the time) and Martin always notices.

They’d sit on Jon’s sofa, close together, nonsense television playing in the background while they ate. It would be comfortable, and neither of them would be afraid, and afterwards maybe Jon would lean into Martin’s solid warmth. Maybe Martin’s arm would go around him, carefully, drawing Jon closer against him, until Jon can feel the rise and fall of Martin’s chest under his cheek. Martin’s hand falling onto his hair. They’d stay there for a long time, quiet and together, and then maybe Jon would turn his head, and meet Martin’s eyes, and Martin would say his name so gently, _Jon_ , and -

Jon pushes the thought away with hot embarrassment. _Stupid, Jonathan_. He doesn’t have time for silly fantasies and has no right to them anyway. If he ever did, he squandered it long ago. Martin’s off doing what he needs to, and Jon has to do the same. It’s the least he can do. The only thing.

He finds the book, _A History Of Occult Symbolism In Abrahamic Sects,_ buried under a pile of old bills and tucks it into his bag. Gives another look around the flat, featureless and unlived in, and sighs when his eyes fall on the wilted plant.

He fills a water glass and pours it gently over the soil, watching as it pools and slowly seeps into the dry earth. It’s probably far past saving, but somewhere along the way someone taught Jon to have hope even for hopeless cases. To hope maybe it isn’t too late to change things. Maybe things are never really gone until you give up on them.

Maybe there’s still a way home.


	4. pyrrhic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pyrrhic - won at too great a cost
> 
> Lonely!Martin (slight Jon/Martin and Tim/Martin feels)

“Well Martin, we saved the world,” says Peter cheerfully. “I think that calls for a drink. A large one.”

Martin smiles absently at him. They’ve done it, all right. Cut the Extinction off at its roots before it could bud, wreathed it in chains of absence and wrapped it tight with silken threads, held in the unbreakable gaze of eternity. It will be millennia before it breaks free, and the world will belong to Forsaken long before that. It’s a job well done, and Martin is pleased.

“Martin!” Jon’s voice cuts sharp as a glance through the fog that surrounds them. Martin turns to face him. Jon is running towards him, looking frantic and fearful. Nearby his assistants are scattered through the fog, lost and bewildered. Basira has a gun. Martin knows where each of them is. He’ll release them soon, most likely.

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin tells him. “It’s over. We won.”

Jon comes to a halt in front of him, his chest heaving. Martin looks at him carefully, his wide, dark eyes, the elegant jut of his chin, the curl of his lip that once made Martin’s heart sing. He can still see all those details, but they awake no passion in him. Jon is just Jon, a person Martin knows, with loneliness seeping out of his pores and longing slicking like oil over his skin.

“It’s over?” Jon breathes. “Does that mean - can you come back now? To - to the Archives?”

Martin can feel how a single word from his lips would chase away Jon’s terrible loneliness, how a touch of his hand would lift Jon’s heart and bring a smile to his lips. It’s coldly fascinating, to think about. Martin remembers when that was him, when all he wanted in the world was a single kind word from Jon, when all he got was dismissal and disdain. It doesn’t hurt, anymore, to remember.

It doesn’t hurt to remember Sasha either, Martin realizes, testing it out. The tilted smile that wasn’t really hers, her true voice on a tape recorder. It doesn’t hurt to remember Tim, his laughter and his anger, the way he’d looked at Martin like Tim was disappointed there wasn’t more to him. Martin might have been half in love with him once, when the other half belonged to Jon, but now? They’re all just Martin’s past, lost in the fog. No pain beyond the mild pang of nostalgia, which only whets his god’s appetite for more.

“I’m not coming back,” he says, and watches Jon’s expression crumple, hurt and guilty.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why not? Martin, _please_.”

Martin smiles at him. He understands now, why Peter smiles all the time. It’s easy, when nothing can possibly hurt you.

“Cheer up, Jon,” he hears himself say. “We saved the world. That calls for a drink.”


	5. apricity I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter
> 
> Gerry/Agnes

He doesn’t expect it to hurt when the page burns, but somehow it does. Whatever vague, liminal space he occupies becomes an inferno, hungrily consuming what passes for his flesh and bone. Gerry has a brief moment to think: _Well, that was a bad idea_.

Only a moment.

He opens his eyes and finds himself sitting in the grass. For the first time since he died, he can’t feel any pain. Looking down, he finds himself whole, unburned, and somehow feeling more present than he has in years. He looks around.

This place, wherever it is, looks like a garden in winter, stark and beautiful, leafless silver-barked trees and pale grass, crispness in the air like the loveliest November. The sun overhead is bright and warm, but the air is chilly, and Gerry shivers a little. He hasn’t felt cold in a long time. It’s kind of nice, to feel things like that again.

Gerry’s never believed in any kind of afterlife, other than the horrifying limbo of the skin book. But he’s also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He gets to his feet and starts walking.

The garden is huge. He wanders for the better part of an hour before he hears the sound of humming from beyond a dry fountain. There’s a woman there, sitting on a stone bench, twining dry flower stems together into a garland. She’s the first living thing he’s seen.

The woman looks up as he approaches. She’s slim and pale with long auburn hair, huge green eyes that make him want to sink into them. When he was alive, Gerry was used to women like this looking at him with suspicion or disdain for his dyed hair and tattoos, the long black coat he wore even in summer. This woman isn’t looking at him with disdain, though, just mild curiosity.

“Hi,” he says, raising a hand. She raises one in response.

“Hello. How did you get here? I haven’t seen anyone else around.”

“I, uh, not sure really,” Gerry confesses. “Where is here? Is it all just garden, or is there anything beyond it?”

“I’ve only seen the garden,” she tells him. “I’ve been here for a while, but I haven’t explored much. I - was never really allowed to go anywhere, before. And then here, it’s so big…I couldn’t decide where to go.”

Gerry is filled with a wave of sympathy. He understands what it feels like, not being able to choose things for yourself. He has the urge to help this woman, and not only because she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Although, she is definitely that.

“We could go together, if you like?” he suggests. She considers him thoughtfully for a moment.

“Yes,” she says, getting to her feet. “I think I’d like that.”

She discards her half-woven garland on the bench and walks over to him, her bare feet hardly disturbing the dry winter grass. Gerry suddenly remembers his manners.

“I’m Gerry, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you Gerry, I’m Agnes.”

And yes, of course she is, Gerry should have known her from the descriptions. And maybe he should be afraid or wary, but he isn’t. He thinks they’re both far past that now.

“What way do you want to go?” he asks. Agnes shrugs.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “But - could I ask you something? Can I hold your hand while we walk?”

Gerry’s heard the stories, but he’s twice over dead. What’s the worst that could happen? And Agnes looks so hopeful.

He holds out his hand, and she takes it in hers. Her fingers are warm, but not unpleasantly so. She squeezes a little, pleased.

“All right, Agnes,” he says. “Let’s see what we can find.”

She smiles at him, and it warms Gerry like the gentle caress of the winter sun.


	6. cruore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cruore - it literally means “flowing blood”
> 
> Jon & Daisy; Daisy/Basira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings this chapter for blood and gore, and blood drinking.

There are very few things Jon would not do for the people he cares about. And really, it’s not the worst thing in the world. He heals quickly, these days.

Basira’s the one who comes to him, her face drawn tight with fear and reluctance. She doesn’t want to ask Jon for help. Doesn’t want to ask anyone, but she has no choice.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” she says. “But she can’t get out of bed.”

Jon knows, in a sudden rush, and he knows Daisy would rather die than ask for what she needs.

“Let me talk to her,” he says. Basira is unsure, untrusting, but she nods. She has no choice.

*

“I don’t want it,” Daisy tells him flatly. “I’ve read about those _things_ that Hunters turn into. I won’t become that.”

She is pale and sweating, her hair plastered to her skull. Her eyes hollow and dark with hunger. Jon reaches for her hand, carefully, and takes it when she doesn’t flinch.

“It’s always our choice, Daisy. What we become. You believed that before.”

“This is different. Those things, the vampires, they’re monsters. Real monsters.”

“And you’re not. We won’t let that happen to you. We’ll - figure it out. But you can’t die. What would Basira do? What would - ” Jon laughs, soft and choked. “Who would I listen to The Archerswith?”

Daisy stares at him, stubborn, her jaw set. Jon sighs.

“You probably couldn’t kill me if you tried, you know that, right? Please, Daisy. You’re my friend. Let me help you.”

The line of Daisy’s jaw twitches and softens, just a little.

“All right,” she says, tiredly, and then with a small, grim smile: “I could definitely kill you.”

*

Daisy’s teeth are like needles where they sink into his wrist. There’s no sign of her tongue turning into a sucking proboscis, at least not yet, but her mouth suctions to his arm with more force that Jon thinks should be possible. The smell of blood is thick, and Jon feels almost instantly light headed.

It’s not the worst thing. There’s even something soothing about it after a few moments, the pain easing to a dull throb and an odd, soporific calm spreading through him. _It stops the victims from struggling, if the first bite doesn’t incapacitate them,_ he knows, and the thought would be distressing if he could feel distressed right now.

He doesn’t feel much of anything until Basira steps in and lays a hand on Daisy’s shoulder, shaking her firmly.

“Enough, Daisy,” she says, and Daisy reluctantly drags her mouth off him. Gives a final lick to Jon’s wrist as she does that makes him shudder. Her teeth are gleaming and red, and she looks dazed as Basira draws her away, holding her gently.

Jon looks down, trying to pull his thoughts back into focus. His arm is laid open to the bone, blood pouring out in sluggish, dark gouts. Not arterial, then, that’s a relief. Even as he notes that, the flesh begins knitting back together, the flow of blood reducing to a trickle and then a slow ooze as the skin closes over.

“There,” he says, satisfied, getting to his feet. “That wasn’t so - ”

Someone catches him before he hits the ground.

*

He comes around to Basira sitting over him, a jacket pillowed under his head. Daisy’s face comes into view as well.

“All right, Jon?” she asks. She sounds worried.

“Fine, I think. Help me sit up?”

Daisy does, and Basira offers him a bottle of Lucozade. He’s not sure how much good that will do, but he appreciates the thought. Uncaps it and takes a sip, grimacing a little at the taste.

“Are you all right?” he asks Daisy. She smiles weakly, and her teeth are still faintly pink.

“I think so,” she says. “Thanks, Jon.”

It’s not a perfect solution, but nothing is these days. And there’s very little Jon wouldn’t do for his friends.


	7. petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petrichor - the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather
> 
> Jon/Georgie

The fight is Jon’s fault.

It’s too hot, is the problem. Who the hell was it that decided exams should happen in the middle of May, and that there should be a heatwave at the same time? It’s too hot, and Jon hasn’t been able to sleep in days, turning restlessly on his mattress with all the covers stripped off.

He gives up on sleep most nights, sits in the sweaty mess of his sheets with his revision notes, squinting through gritty eyes. Jon’s not afraid of failing, but he’s desperately afraid of not doing well enough. He’s self aware enough to know that Being Good At Academics is not a solid foundation to build your entire sense of worth on, but he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Georgie somehow thrives in the heat, wearing shorts and loose shirts and running wet fingers through her hair to cool down. She tries to convince Jon to cool down too, physically and mentally, but the more she urges him to relax the more tightly his insides coil.

The night things go bad they’re at Jon’s flatshare. Ostensibly hanging out, but in fact Jon is studying while Georgie lounges at the end of his bed, flipping through one of his books and making small huffing sounds of boredom from time to time. It’s the hottest day yet, and storm clouds have been gathering all evening, close and humid, threatening to break at any time.

“We should go to the seaside on the weekend,” she says, kicking a sandaled foot in the air. “I promise you won’t melt if you go in the water. Probably.”

“I need to study,” say Jon, frowning at a collection of Catullus. Georgie sighs and sits up.

“You always need to study,” she says, tartly. “What you _need_ is to take a break, Jon. Relax for five minutes. You don’t see me getting all stressed out about exams.”

“Well it’s easy if you don’t mind graduating with a third,” Jon snaps without thinking. Georgie looks at him, her expression going dark. She opens her mouth.

Ten minutes later Jon’s storming out past his startled flatmate, and he’s down in the street furiously smoking a cigarette before it occurs to him that he’s the one who lives here. Now he’ll have to wait for Georgie to leave before he can go back inside, because he can’t face her. Not after the vicious, poisonous things he said. She gave as good as she got, and god, he won’t forget some of it for a long time, but it was his fault. The best thing in his life for a long time, and he’s ruined it. Typical.

Jon’s hands are trembling faintly as he lights a second cigarette, his vision blurred with more than exhaustion. He sees a flash in the distance, lightning, and the clouds rumble ominously overhead. There is a hot, electric feeling in the air, sending goosebumps down Jon’s arms.

“Can I have one of those?”

Georgie looks a little sheepish, but defiant with it. Jon offers her the pack and she lights one without looking at him. The thunder rolls above them again.

“Do you want me to come and get my stuff from your house?” Jon asks quietly. “Or do you want to bring it into uni?”

“What?” Georgie sounds bewildered. “What are you - are you breaking up with me?”

“I can’t take back what I said,” Jon says, miserable. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I didn’t mean - ”

He stops as tears threaten to choke him, pressing up hot and painful behind his eyes. He blinks them back angrily. Thunder roars, and there is a cacophony of noise around them as rain starts to fall with shocking abruptness, hammering the pavement violently. In moments they’re both soaked, no point even trying to escape, cigarettes dissolving to mush in their hands. Georgie looks at him through the downpour, startled and sad.

“We had a fight, Jon,” she says, raising her voice above the rainfall. “Just a _fight_. You’ve been really stressed out recently, and I have to admit I’ve been a bit annoyed about it. It doesn’t mean we have to break up. I mean, unless you want to?”

“No!” Jon says without thinking. “Of course I don’t! I just thought - ”

“You thought if you didn’t do everything perfectly, all the time, your life would be over?” Georgie gives him a sad little smile, her hair plastered over her forehead like a wet cat, her thick eyeliner running as she blinks rainwater away. Right here and now, soaked and shivering in a downpour, she takes Jon’s breath away.

“Yeah,” Jon says, something painful and angled unwinding in his chest. It feels like releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “I suppose I did.”

Georgie reaches out and takes his hand, squeezes it tightly in her small one. The deluge is dying away to a gentle patter, and the sharp, tight heat in the air has disappeared, washed away in the cool dampness.

“You don’t have to do things perfectly,” Georgie tells him. “Not with me. We all fuck up, but you’re worth a lot, Jon Sims. You just need to know it.”

Jon can smell the earth, rich and smoky and alive, joyously drinking in the rain. He feels suddenly terribly tired, all the tension draining from him. He thinks maybe he could sleep for a week, if he had Georgie beside him. He squeezes her hand in return.

“We could go down to Bournemouth on the weekend,” he says, tentatively. “You haven’t met my grandmother yet. And Alum Chine beach is lovely.”

Georgie smiles.

“That sounds really nice.”


	8. astral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> astral - of or relating to the stars
> 
> Daisy, Peter

When Basira’s away and the others are busy, Daisy goes up on the roof. _Comforting_ isn’t the word she’d use, for the space around her, above her, a clear view all the way to the horizon. _Grounding_ is probably the closest, but there’s an irony to that she doesn’t think she’s enough of a clever git to enjoy. Jon would, probably.

The sky here in London is nothing like where she grew up. The little village, before they moved to Swansea for her dad’s job. The skies there were open and endless, and clear nights her mum used to take her stargazing. Daisy still remembers all their names. _Cassiopeia_ , the queen. _Aquila_ , the eagle. _Cygnus_ , the swan.

You can’t see them from up here, the light pollution is far too bad. Daisy’s eyes are better than most, a predator’s eyes, but still she can barely make out Orion’s belt _(the hunter)_ and the sharp angles of the Plow. Still, nights she’s up here she squints at the sky, tracing where she thinks the familiar lines would fall.

“Lonely?”

The voice behind her is amused and pretending to be friendly, but Daisy catches the teeth in the tone. A poisonous sort of voice. She turns. The man who arrived so soundlessly is middle aged, tall and broad and bearded. His face is like his voice, sharp and cold behind a veneer of joviality. Daisy feels the muscles tense under her clothes, drawing tight and hard. Her fingers curl.

“You’re him then? Peter Lukas?”

“The one and only,” he says, inclining his head. “And you’re Daisy. What brings you up here all alone?”

“I like looking at the sky,” she tells him, keeping her voice carefully neutral. She wonders whether she should try to take him, drag him downstairs and have Jon talk to him. Do that thing where he rips people’s thoughts right out of their head. Might wipe the smug look of this bastard’s face. She knows she shouldn’t though. She might not be able to, and even if she could -

“I imagine you would, after being buried so long. Do you dream about it?”

Daisy stares at him levely, swallowing the fear that tightens her throat. Bloody monsters. She won’t give him the satisfaction. He watches her for a moment, then smiles.

“Never mind. I suppose you’re more worried about going back to the Hunt, eh? Blood rising in your belly day in and out? It must be terrible. I could help you with that.”

“Is that so?” Daisy says without affect. She doesn’t know what Lukas is getting at, but she has the feeling the only way out of this conversation is through. He nods.

“Oh yes. You could come and work for me. It’s hard to feel much savagery or anger through the Lonely - or much of anything, really. It’s done wonders for Martin.”

“I think I’m all right, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Lukas says with a shrug. “I thought I’d offer. It has to be difficult, feeling like you’ve lost your purpose. Like trying to navigate when you can’t see the stars.”

“I have a GPS,” Daisy tells him flatly, and he laughs, a good-natured chuckle. Without another word he walks away, still completely silent, and Daisy loses sight of him almost immediately. She lets out a long breath and feels her muscles slowly uncoil, her palms hurting from where her fingernails sank in.

Bloody monsters. Still, it’s not the worst idea, to find another fear to feed. What do they call it, patronage? Basira’s with the Beholding, and so is Jon, although Daisy never imagined that Jonathan Sims would be a factor in her decision making. It wouldn’t be hard, getting into Elias’ office. It’s something to think about.

She might not be able to see the old familiar stars from here, but maybe she can find some new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was expanded to a full fic, which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865965).


	9. apricity II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter
> 
> Jon/Martin

London is a misery in winter. The days are so short they’re hardly worth mentioning, and most of the time it’s too cold to even snow properly. Rain and sleet and icy slush on the streets, dull gray cloud cover so you can scarcely tell when the sun’s up.

Jon thinks he should be used to it by now, he’s lived in London most of his adult life and it’s not as if anywhere else he’s lived has been much better. He just hates being cold all the time, having to dress in layers and then get rained on so he’s dressed in _soggy_ layers, and forget using an umbrella in the constant wind. Jon deals with it by just not going outside much during the winter, and all right, that’s not an _ideal_ solution to four months of the year, but it’s the best he has.

“That’s enough,” Martin tells him one Tuesday at around twelve. “We’re going out for lunch today.”

Jon scowls at him. It’s all very well for Martin, who’s the human equivalent of a furnace and doesn’t seem to notice the cold at all. And yes, he does appreciate when Martin lets him snuggle up on the sofa and steal all his heat, and doesn’t even complain about Jon’s icy feet being tucked under Martin’s shins, but that’s by the by.

“I’m in the middle of something,” he says. “You go ahead - would you mind bringing me back something?”

Jon gives Martin his best plaintive expression, and under normal circumstances Jon actually _asking_ for food like he’s remembered he has a stomach would be enough to make Martin beam. Not this time, though. He’s got his arms crossed, and he looks serious.

“I don’t know if you can actually _get_ a vitamin deficiency,” Martin says. “With your spooky metabolism. But I do not want to have to tell people my boyfriend got rickets from not leaving the basement for six weeks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,” Jon says. “I take a supplement every day.”

Martin looks unmoved. He’s begun tapping his toe, which means he’s growing impatient. Jon scowls again, then puts down the file he was reading.

“Fine,” he sighs, getting to his feet. “I hope you’ll have more fun telling people that your boyfriend got pneumonia from being dragged out in the freezing rain.”

“Actually, the sun’s come out a bit,” Martin says. It sounds a lot like lies to Jon.

Martin waits patiently while Jon wraps himself in several layers of jumpers and coats and scarves, though he does smile a little as Jon pats himself down for his gloves.

“We should get you a pair of those mittens that pin onto the front of your jacket,” he says. Jon doesn’t dignify that with a response.

He gets the gloves on and they walk out, Martin grabbing an anorak as they go. He shrugs it on over his jumper, and doesn’t even bother doing it up. Bloody walking radiator. Martin’s hand finds his as they walk up the stairs, and Jon does feel mildly like a three year old in his thick woolen gloves. Still, better than frostbite.

And all right, when they walk outside the clouds have actually broken up a bit. There’s still slush on the pavements, gleaming dark and wet with rain and ice, but the sun is shining through a gap in the cloud cover, pale and bright. Jon turns his face up to it, squinting his eyes closed and soaking in the weak warmth. It’s not much, but after weeks of overcast it’s heavenly. Jon thinks he might even give a rather embarrassing sigh of enjoyment.

When he opens his eyes again Martin is smiling at him, looking halfway between endeared and smug.

“Isn’t that better?” he asks.

“A bit, I suppose,” Jon concedes, not wanting to give Martin too much fuel for his self-satisfaction. Martin laughs.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, using the grip he has on Jon’s hand to tug him in close against Martin’s chest. And fine, yes, he was actually right about this whole thing, so Jon pushes up onto his toes and kisses him, quick and soft. Martin’s lips are as warm as the rest of him.

“So where do you want to go for lunch?” Martin asks. Jon thinks for a moment.

“Let’s just get a sandwich,” he suggests, “And we can sit in the park to eat it. Work on my vitamin D deficiency.”


	10. scrosciare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scrosciare - the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs
> 
> Peter/Martin

They take ship north to Ny-Alesund. Not the _Tundra_ , she’s too large to be nimble. From the size and the elaborate mechanics at its stern, Martin would guess it’s a repurposed fishing trawler.

“We have to keep an eye on your Archivist,” Peter tells him by way of explanation. “Elias would never let it go if he got himself killed by the Dark.”

Martin doesn’t bother protesting that Jon’s not _his_ Archivist. Not his anything, anymore, even if he ever was. Peter only enjoys it more when you let him know that what he says bothers you.

He’s seasick at first, his stomach lurching with every sway of the ship, his mouth watering unpleasantly. He stays on deck through it, curled in a corner out of the way, because the only thing worse than being nauseous and off-balance is being stuck in a cramped cabin through the experience. At least the air up here is cold and brisk, the bursts of spray refreshing.

Martin watches the crew going about their tasks with practiced efficiency. Watches Peter striding around the deck like lord of his domain, giving the occasional order and gazing out at the horizon with a furrowed brow. Martin’s never seen him looking so, well, _serious_. Never seen him looking anything but amused or faintly distracted.

Out here on the ocean, Peter looks more like a real person than Martin’s ever seen him.

By the second day Martin is feeling better, his feet getting used to the movement of the boat under them, beginning to anticipate the pitch and roll of the waves. He stands at the railing looking out at the endless, empty ocean around them. The waves, he thinks, are getting bigger, and a mass of dark cloud is rolling in from the west.

“Feeling better?” Peter says, clapping a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “Good lad. Just be careful. We wouldn’t want to lose you.”

The hand on him squeezes, possessive and just this side of hurting. No, Martin thinks, Peter wouldn’t want to lose him. Not while there’s anything of him left to consume.

That night he dreams about unoccupied graveyards and an endless, foggy moor. Wakes with an aching emptiness in his chest. Doesn’t think about maybe seeing Jon at Ny Alesund, or about Peter’s strong hand, tight on his shoulder. Peter’s cruel smile that never touches his eyes.

The rain comes in on the afternoon of the third day. It’s been threatening all morning, the clouds roiling low and sullen overhead, the wind picking up, sending waves chopping against the sides. Martin doesn’t get sick again, but he’s unsteady on his feet as the boat lists ponderously.

A few spattered drops fall first, and within moments it’s become a deluge. Martin gasps as the rain hits him, the cold startling the breath from his lungs. He’s drenched in seconds, blinking water out of his eyes uselessly. The rain is falling in heavy gray sheets, obscuring his vision and hammering the deck so hard he can hear nothing else. He feels suddenly, entirely alone.

He isn’t. Not quite.

“It’s a beautiful feeling, isn’t it?” Peter says from beside him, leaning in close so his words reach Martin’s ears. “As if nobody else exists. You could do anything you want, and nobody would know.”

Peter is soaked, rain plastering his hair to his head and running down his face. He looks terribly human for it, and his breath is warm against Martin’s cheek. His hand comes up and cups the back of Martin’s neck, gentle and proprietary.

Martin shivers at the touch. He’s never forgotten that Peter Lukas is a monster. But until now, he’d half forgotten that Peter is also a man. Peter leans back fractionally, looking him up and down with slow thoroughness, and smiles.

“What would you want to do, Martin?”

Martin turns towards him, feeling breathless and hollow.

“If nobody would know?”

Peter pulls him closer and the rain closes in like a veil, leaving them alone together.


	11. balter, rubatosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> balter - to dance gracelessly, but with enjoyment
> 
> rubatosis - the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat
> 
> Melanie/Helen

However many times Melanie visits the corridors, something in her can’t let go of the wrongness of the place. Some animal thing in her hindbrain, that sets her eyes darting and her heart drumming against her ribs with unnerving force.

It might be the way the wallpaper patterns melt and drip, the way the carpet shifts restlessly under her feet. It might be the heat, that sends sweat prickling across her skin the moment she walks through the door.

Melanie likes it here. Because here, at least, she has an excuse for the jagged awareness of her own pulse, for the clench of her jaw and her fist. Her teeth grind, and she can put it down to the uncanny curve of the walls, not the monster in her blood.

She stalks without direction, but with purpose. The corridors always take her where she’s supposed to go, to whatever whimsy of Helen’s they’ve shaped themselves to this time.

One time it was a vast amphitheatre, where the tiniest whisper reverberated endlessly, echoing and amplifying until it was a roar of defiance.

Once it was an enormous, twisting network of tube slides, looping and turning and doubling back eye-wateringly on themselves. Melanie had rolled her eyes at the silliness of it, and then spent hours hurtling down the tubes at tremendous speed, whooping with exhilaration while Helen’s laughter warped the air around them.

Often, it’s just a small room with comfortable furniture. A respite from the outside world that jangles at Melanie’s nerves. Melanie sprawls on a couch, and Helen folds herself into an armchair, close enough that her long, knotted fingers can stroke through Melanie’s hair. She likes it best those times, when it’s the two of them, quiet and together.

Today, Melanie hears the soft strains of music as she walks. Not music as most people would know it, discordant and razor-edged, just this side of piercing, but Melanie recognizes it for what it is: Helen’s voice. Her corridors are part of her, and they vibrate to her being, conveying her song through their weird architecture.

Melanie hurries forward, her heartbeat quickening now for reasons other than the strangeness of the place. Not much longer, and she finds a door. Pauses there in the doorframe, watching.

The room today is mirrored from floor to ceiling. _Including_ floor and ceiling. Helen is singing in several distinct keys at once, the disharmonious tones tangling together into something peculiarly beautiful. She is dancing as she sings, swaying her impossibly long limbs to the sound of her music, her body twisting in graceless and irrational arcs.

It’s a little like watching a child dance, artless and without a shred of self consciousness, entirely charming. At last, she catches sight of Melanie standing in the doorway, and twirls to a stop.

“Melanie,” she says with delight. “I thought you might visit today. I just had the idea for this room - what do you think?”

“I think it’s lovely,” Melanie tells her. Helen beams.

“I’m glad. Would you like to come in and dance with me?”

“I’m not sure about that,” says Melanie, eyeing the reflective floor. “It looks a bit slippery.”

Helen holds out one long, impossible hand. It shouldn’t reach all the way to the door, but it does, its fingers curving in an invitation.

“Don’t worry about that,” Helen says. “I promise, I won’t let you fall.”

“I know you won’t,” says Melanie, smiling. She takes Helen’s hand, and lets herself be pulled onto the floor, her heartbeat matching the rhythm of their dance.


End file.
